Home is a Choice

Though it might be cliche to say, as I’ve grown up,  I’ve come to realize that home really isn’t a place but a set of people and feelings. I grew up in Troy, Michigan with my dad, mom, and younger brother. Though I’ve lived in that house for the better part of my life, I’m well aware that the sense of comfort and bliss that I feel every time I go back isn’t because of the blue walls in my bedroom or the sight of the basketball hoop decorating my driveway. Home is the smell of my mom’s cooking that drifts over me in the living room. It’s the sight of my dad folding laundry before the Lions play on Sundays. It’s in my brother’s laughter when he successfully uses his best spin moves on me. As I near the end of college, I find myself holding onto these small moments, filling my mind with tangible senses that I’ll recall from my memory whenever I want. 

I think when I was in high school, it was easy to feel shackled by home. Home was where I came back at 2:30pm after school, where I couldn’t stay out past a certain time, where we would fight about who my friends were, where mom and dad wouldn’t let me use my phone after 11pm. I unfairly blamed them, but I followed their rules anyway because it was their home. One day, I’d have my own place where I’m free to make my own decisions. Now I do have that. Home in Ann Arbor is filled with friends, weekly meals at Tomukun, and my guitar. While I love my time and independence in Ann Arbor, I still look forward to the weekends where I do go back to see my family. I’ve realized that home takes on a different meaning when you choose who it is instead of being obligated to embrace it because you were born into it. I’m incredibly grateful that regardless of where I am, I always feel like I’m at home.